Living with wrinkles

There was a time when I was attached to my ironing board. Living wrinkle free is passed down on my Dad’s side of the family. Hawley’s are quite particular about art of folding laundry. And it IS an art – you would know this if you’ve ever seen me fold my clothes. My father taught me his techniques early on.

My Mom taught me the tricks of ironing. I found ironing so so satisfying, I would happily iron my parents’ clothes, excited by the challenges of pants and pleats, approaching button down shirts masterfully, ironing the collar and sleeves first. But you see, the type of person who irons their jeans is not the type of person I want to be. I learned this in college – it just wasn’t the sort of trait that was going to be accepted by the hippie/hipster types that I hoped to befriend. They weren’t hipsters back then; my friends were alternative.

I didn’t give up my ironing board over night, I slipped back into my wrinkle-free obsession post college, and professionalism was the perfect cover. But I was saved by resuming a student life and moving to West Philadelphia where I was once again immersed in a community that wasn’t likely to accept my wrinkle-free lifestyle. I couldn’t very well iron my clothes and purchase the majority of my food at the farmer’s market or meet up with Monica at Satellite (where I will forever stand out as over-dressed) to indulge in vegan bagel creations and kale smoothies.

I was now safely under the influence of Alex (AWB) who can’t be bothered by standard homemaker tasks and Lee whose bedroom was a mélange of clothing, bedding, creative output, photographs, random items collected about in the community, books, diagrams, trash, smelly shoes – you get the idea. I found myself happily giving up my bra and underwear during the summer months and embracing my bike as the best means of transportation to impromptu porch sits where copious amounts of PBR and Lionshead were consumed. Your clothes from the Second Mile most definitely should NOT be wrinkle-free and more importantly you (I) just stopped noticing. Relief.

Fast forward to Spring 2010. I am purging my belongings. I am assessing what I do and do not want to transfer across the expansive United States. I decide that I have to keep my iron for emergencies. However, I sell my steamer to Mike (he’s a “professional” by day) who happily finds a way to transport it home (by bike) and my ironing board to Amy (Lee’s girlfriend). I am currently living an ironing board free existence. I have ironed twice since arriving in Seattle (interview).

But now sewing requires that I find myself an ironing board. I feel uncomfortable bringing it into my home. Will I start ironing things that have no business being ironed? I might. Let’s be honest, I grew up ironing everything – not because my parents did but because I was THAT kid. The thought of ironing seductively colorful blocks of fabric excites me. Let’s hope my t-shirts remain only as wrinkle-free as I can achieve with attentive folding practices.